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by Naraht



Series: Skinner and Browne Investigate [2]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, NASA, Washington D.C., Wordcount: 100-1.000, bureaucrats, commentfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:15:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lunchtime at the NASA Headquarters cafeteria.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

  * For [aedh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aedh/gifts).



Skinner and Browne usually eat lunch together at the self-service cafeteria at NASA Headquarters.

"Because we have so many options," says Browne dolefully, but Skinner privately thinks that the food is much better than the stodgy meals at the FBI.

It takes a while before Skinner realizes that Browne's selections in the cafeteria are based on an obscure algorithm of weight-to-value ratio. Prices are a flat fee of so much per pound of food, and Browne thinks that he can game the system.

"Anything with a high water content is heavy," he says to Skinner out of the corner of his mouth while they're at the far end of the salad bar, as if he's afraid that someone will steal his method. "It's not like I can't get better watermelon in Houston anyway."

Browne sits down with a salad that's heavy on the sundried tomatos and a packet of diet blue cheese dressing. ("Jo," he says, biting off his words. "Diet.") With close-bitten fingertips, he starts worrying at the plasticized edge of the packet.

"Let me--" Skinner starts, impatient at what promises to be a long struggle. If Browne were a young agent on a weekend training course, he would have had a black mark against him already. Physical competence counts for a lot at the FBI. Clearly not at NASA.

All Skinner gets from Browne is a dark glare in reply. He hunches a little more over his packet and manages to get it open without more than a stray droplet or two splattering onto his tie. (It almost improves the design, Skinner thinks.) After squeezing half of it onto his salad, he takes a curt bite, makes a face, and pushes the rest of it to one side with a plastic fork whose tines have already been bent on the unyielding sundried tomatoes.

"Next time we're going to get crabs at the waterfront," says Browne.

Every day he says this, and they never do it.

Several minutes pass.

"You know there's a good reason they don't sell that astronaut ice cream here," Browne adds thoughtfully. "Two, actually. First, it tastes like crap. Second, it would blow their whole pricing structure. That stuff weighs nothing at all. We should probably be building space stations out of it instead of eating it."

After a few weeks of cafeteria meals with Browne, Skinner realizes the truth of the endless lunchtime strategizing. His deputy is bored. Desperately bored, with his job and probably with life in general. And the sun dried tomatoes don't count for much in the grand scheme of things.


End file.
